I like to read confessions
As lengthy as Rousseau's,
With all their slow processions
Of innumerable woes.

I revel in Cellini,
Augustine, Amiel
Dumas's Memoirs so sheeny,
Lies no one else could tell.

I love each peccadillo
Of honest Mr. Pepys,
Confided to his pillow
Before his conscience sleeps.

But I prefer in verses
To hand my life to time:
You may forgive what worse is
For tickle of the rhyme.